Muhammed Saeed al Sahaf in Middle Earth
by technetium
Summary: Why has no one seen the Iraqi Information Minister lately? How is Monty Python involved? The answers may be stranger than you think. Chapter 9 - Rules and Regulations
1. Default Chapter

Title: Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf in Middle-Earth

Author: Technetium

Rating: PG

Archive: Sure, just tell me.

Disclaimer: Master Tolkien owns Middle-Earth.  I'm just playing in his world.  Monty Python isn't mine either.  Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf (M.S.S.) is a real person, and is really the Iraqi Information Minister.  Because he has made outrageously false claims in his official capacity ("Their forces committed suicide by the hundreds.... The battle is very fierce and God made us victorious."), he has become a kind of celebrity.  Websites such as www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com have sprung up, and he has even been parodied on Saturday Night Live.  I consider him a historic figure, so I don't think this violates the rules against real person fics as laid out by ff.net.  This fic is just another parody based on his outrageous statements.  I don't mean to disrespect the actual M.S.S., as I have no idea of his true motivations or actual beliefs.  This is not meant to be for or against the war, and I don't mean to offend Muslims, Iraqis, Americans, British people, soldiers, or anyone else.

Author's Notes: Please let me know what you think.  I'll try to change passages if people find them offensive, and I will welcome constructive criticism, praise, or flames.

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            Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf, the Iraqi Information Minister, looked out his window and smiled at the sight that greeted his eyes.  "Rejoice," he exclaimed to the people around him, who were busy fortifying their office doors and windows with overturned office furniture, "The immoral mercenaries are committing suicide under the walls of Baghdad.  Let them come.  My feelings, as usual, are that we will slaughter them all!"  In reality, heavily armed U.S. and British troops with no recognizeable warning signs of depression had entered his building.  Even as he spoke, a soldier pointed an M-16 at him and demanded that he surrender.

            It is said that if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you can move mountains.  With faith as strong as al-Sahaf's, you can move worlds.  Muhammed faced the soldier, but every fiber of his being believed that "there are no American Infidels in Baghdad.  Never!" and he did not perceive reality.  Reality, which was impatient, and had other things to do with its time, and had lost track of the number of battles it had fought with this man, gave up.  Reality **_shifted_.**

            Muhammed blinked as he found himself in a black stone tower facing a greasy, rat-like man and an irate-looking man dressed in an odd cloak that seemed to change colors when al-Sahaf looked at it.

. . .To be continued in the next chapter, in which al-Sahaf denies the existence of Ents.


	2. Isengard

Disclaimer:  Not mine, no offense intended.

            "Tell me who you are and what is happening, or the full force of the Iraqi Army will crush you.  We will pound you with missiles and artillery, and when you retreat we will laugh and kick your backsides."  Al-Sahaf might not know what was going on, but he did know that he couldn't let those villains get the upper hand.

            Saruman looked at the stranger in glasses wearing a black beret.  He knew the bewildered man could have no connection to the invading Ents, and that the wisest course of action would probably be to kill this delusional apparition, but his words were strangely compelling.  He had a power akin to that of Wormtongue, and Saruman thought he might be able to use that to his advantage.  Also, there wasn't a lot to do while under siege, and Go Fish with two people was getting boring.

            "You are in the tower of Orthanc in what was the city of Isengard.  We are being attacked by tree-creatures called Ents.  I am the great wizard Saruman, and this is Grima."  Muhammed thought on this, and then his eyes lit up.  Figuratively speaking, of course, and not in the "my pupils are on fire" sort of way.

            "Praise be to God!  I have protected and informed the Iraqi people when they thought they were being invaded by proclaiming the truth, and now I have been sent to aid you.  Truly, the invaders are godless infidels. I tell you, there are no Ents in Isengard!"

. . . To be continued

A/N: Even though Saruman is speaking Westron and al-Sahaf is speaking Arabic or broken English, there is no language problem because al-Sahaf **_believes_** that everyone will understand him.


	3. It's not easy being Saruman

Disclaimer: I don't own LoTR, M.S.S., or Monty Python.

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            "Dealer takes three cards," announced Saruman.

            "Two," muttered Wormtongue.

            "Truly, I need no new cards, for I have a royal flush.  Allah has condemned your cards.  They are stupid, and they are condemned."

            Saruman brought his fingers together in front of his face and brooded.  He could not do anything until Gandalf made the first move, so he had played poker to alleviate the tension.  Al-Sahaf had a natural talent for poker, much in the same way that orcs had a natural talent for ballet.  Now there was a mental image he could do without.  Saruman shuddered as he placed his bet of two torches and called.  Why torches?  Well, they didn't have much of anything else to bet, and strip poker was right out.

            Wormtongue laid down a full house, Saruman showed his four aces (there are advantages to being a wizard), and al-Sahaf had a very unimpressive pair of fives.  Saruman would have collected his rightful winnings, but after four games, he knew it would be useless.

            "Once again, by God, I am victorious!"  Al-Sahaf rejoiced in his winnings and then strode over to a window.  "Look at the strong walls, industrious machinery, and astonishing beauty of Isengard.  Even now, the enemy has retreated.  The cowards have gone to commit suicide.  I triple-guarantee, those infidel trees will be no problem."

            Now Wormtongue was not a brave man, and he knew how to be patient and bide his time, but he had had enough with being silent while this dotard spouted lies.

            "Those are no ordinary trees!  They are the most cruel, foul, and ill-tempered creatures you ever laid eyes on!  They are killers.  Earlier today, one grabbed me off my horse and forced me to cross a river in which I almost drowned.  So go and confront those Ents, if you think yourself a man of valor, for death awaits you with nasty, leafy branches!"

            "Do not worry, my friend," smiled Muhammed cheerfully, "we will butcher them."  Wormtongue had never wanted to bitch-slap anyone, even Éomer, more in his entire life.  He grabbed the front of al-Sahaf's uniform and pulled him closer to the window.

            "Look outside," he hissed through clenched teeth, "and see how everything is ruined.  All that remains are pieces of wreckage floating in pools of slimy water and loose slabs of what used to be masterful stonework."

            "The enemy is not even within 100 miles of Isengard. They are not in any  
place. This is an illusion ... they are trying to sell to you an illusion. You cannot believe in an illusion."  As Wormtongue looked at al-Sahaf's earnest face, he knew he could not hit the Iraqi.  It would be like kicking a puppy; fun, but ultimately pointless and liable to get your feet covered in dog hair.  On second thought, maybe that was not the best analogy.  Wormtongue threw up his hands in frustration and grabbed the pack of cards from Saruman to go play solitaire in a corner.  Well, he would have done that, but the round tower had no edges.  Some architects just had no consideration.

            Saruman looked at his companions and sighed.  He was an Istar, a Maia, one of the most wise and powerful beings in Middle-Earth, and he was trapped with an Iraqi with rose-colored glasses permanently welded to his head, and a slimy soothsayer who was attempting to build a corner out of discarded torches in order to cheat at solitaire in privacy.  When a powerful voice at Orthanc's entrance commanded him to come forth, he almost welcomed it.  "Let them come," he thought to himself, "We will butcher them."

. . . To be continued

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Thank you to my wonderful reviewers!

French Pony – Thank you for being my first reviewer.  I will try to avoid the pitfalls you mentioned, and the chapters will be a little longer from now on.  Hmm, I've never played gin rummy before.  I'll have to go look for the rules.

Giantgreenbird – I'm glad you find it funny, but I'm sorry about your knee and elbow.  *hands you e-bandaids*

Hana – Being compared to Pratchett is the highest compliment I could ask for.  I actually read _The Light Fantastic a few hours before starting this fic, and I was trying to keep that kind of humor in mind._

MetaChi – Thanks.  This fic is the product of getting an Instant Message with the address of that site while I was reading LoTR fanfiction.

Chélynne – Another comparison to Discworld?  Thanks, I was trying for that.  *floats on cloud 9*  FF.net can be odd about that at times.

Midnightelf – Thanks, I will.

LioraJean – Thanks, I hope so.

Queen Isis – The chapters should be longer from now on.  Thanks.

Fortis Maga – As I understand it, it is forbidden to have a fic that is primarily about a real person, such as an actor.  I am writing a parody using the on-screen persona of a public figure.  I have seen numerous humor or parody fics on this site in which George Bush or another public figure will make an appearance, and there is not a problem.


	4. An Outrageous Confrontation

Disclaimer: _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_, M.S.S., and LoTR belong to other people.

A/N: Italics in the story indicate thoughts or words in another language.

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            "Get the door," Saruman directed Wormtongue.  He wished he could say it was Domino's Pizza, but he knew that was not the case.  The sound of footsteps echoed throughout the mostly deserted tower, until opened the window above the entrance with a loud scraping sound.

            "Who is it?*" he called, as he looked upon the scene.  Théoden, Éomer, Gandalf, Aragorn, a dwarf, and an elf stood in front of the imposing door, while two hobbits and miscellaneous riders of Rohan stood on the ground at the foot of the steps.

            "It is I, Théoden, son of Thengel of the castle Meduseld in Edoras, King of the Mark, sovereign of all Rohan.  And these are my trusty companions, whom you know.  We have ridden the length and breadth of the land in search of you."

            Gandalf stepped forward.  "Go and fetch Saruman, since you have become his footman, Gríma Wormtongue!*"

            "Well, I'll fetch him, but I don't think he'll be very keen.  You see, he already has a plan to get out of here."  Gandalf had not expected that reply.

            "Are you sure?"

            "Oh yes, it's very nice."  Saruman and Muhammed had come down the stairs to stand behind Wormtongue, but out of sight of the observers on the ground.  "I told them we already have a plan," Gríma whispered to them.  Saruman smirked.  He was confident that he could escape this situation, and the more he could annoy Gandalf while doing it, the better.

            "Yes, we are winning without their help," added al-Sahaf.

            Gandalf needed to get control of the situation.  "If that is so, why don't you have Saruman come out and explain this plan?"

            "No, of course he will not do that.  You are unworthy types." Wormtongue sneered.  Théoden could not let that groveling worm get away with that comment.

            "Well, what are you, then?  And who is that beside you?" he asked, spotting Muhammed.

            "I'm the representative of Saruman.  Why do you think I have this outrageous audacity, you silly king?"

            "And I am Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf, the Information Minister of Iraq.  We welcome you with bullets and shoes."

            "_It wasn't supposed to go like this," thought Gandalf.  Only Gríma and Saruman were supposed to be in the tower, and he should be having an argument with the other wizard by now.  But Gandalf knew how to adapt to interesting situations.  He had faced a Balrog, and surely he could face an Iraqi._

            "What are you doing in Orthanc?" he asked, directing his question at the information minister.  Al-Sahaf started to go into his spiel about proclaiming truth to the oppressed, when Wormtongue interrupted him.

            "Mind your own business!" he shouted at Gandalf.

            "If you will not show us Saruman, we will take him by force."  The quiet tone of Gandalf and the way the sky darkened over where the wizard stood made even the riders uneasy, but Wormtongue paid him no heed.

            "You don't frighten us, Istari pig-dog.  I blow my nose at you, so-called Théoden, King.  You and all your silly Rohirric Riders."  Wormtongue began blowing raspberries.

            In front of the door, the white wizard and Aragorn exchanged glances.  "What a strange person," proclaimed the human.

            Al-Sahaf got into the act as well.  "We don't want to talk to you any more.  We are in control, and you are in a state of hysteria.  You are _tarateer_, men full of farts, because we will fart in your general direction.  Your mothers were wild donkeys, and your fathers smelled of leeches with dramatically ugly faces."

            "Is there someone else up there we can talk to?" queried Legolas.  He, more than any of the company, knew what wreckage a wizard's wrath could wreak, and he had no desire either to be caught near an angry Gandalf or to say that phrase three times fast.

            "No," retorted Wormtongue.  "Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time."  He was having fun.  Gandalf, however, was not.  Before their eye, he seemed to grow in power, becoming as something terrible.

            "This is your last chance, Wormtongue.  I have been more than reasonable."  Gríma paled, hurriedly backed away from the window, and almost pushed Saruman forward.  "_You've still got it in you, old boy_," thought Gandalf happily.  "_Go me_."

* indicates a direct quote from _The Two Towers, Book 3, Chapter 10, "The Voice of Saruman."_

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Q: Did you mean to turn this into a _Monty Python and the Holy Grail parody?_

A: No! No! No! No! Well . . . yes.  Yeah, a bit.  A bit.  But "Who is it?" is a direct quote from the book, and when you already have a predisposition to see Monty Python quotes everywhere, you can't help but read it with an outrageous French accent as "Who eez eet?" and things just escalated from there.

A/N: Ok, people, I need your help.  I have the next chapter planned out, but after that I am not entirely sure what I want to do.  I wanted to get up to the scouring of the Shire, but I would have to come up with a story about how M.S.S., Saruman, and Wormtongue get from Orthanc to there, because I can't find it explained in the book.  Or, I could just gloss over it.  Am I drawing this fic out too far?  Also, would you prefer to see M.S.S. get returned to Earth, shifted into yet another reality, or left in the Shire?

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Thanks, reviewers!

French Pony – Yes, but Saruman deserves it.  I will try to get inside al-Sahaf's head in upcoming chapters, especially if I decide to leave him in the Shire.

Hana – Thanks for the rose.  I liked your comment about the nerve gas.

Queen Isis – I'm glad you like it.  The next chapter might be a few days in coming, but I won't stop writing.


	5. Watch for Falling Palantíri

Disclaimer: Not mine.  A lot of the Al-Sahaf quotes are paraphrased from welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com.  Anyone who spots the partial quote from the Simpsons (which is also not mine) gets an e-cookie.  The title of this chapter was inspired by Road Signs of Middle Earth by October. 

"Will you give me no peace at all by night or day?"  Saruman addressed the crowd with a voice like that of a kindly heart aggrieved by injuries undeserved.*  Except for the kindly part, he didn't have to fake.  Gríma and al-Sahaf were enough to try the patience of Ilúvatar[1].  At the moment, the two headache-inducers had moved to a different window to observe.

            "What are those odd people?  Do the infidels employ children, bearded midgets, and those with deformed ears?  Does no one here have guns or television or tanks?  Why do you ride horses and fight with swords?"  Wormtongue looked at Muhammed.  He was acting as if he had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere from a foreign land . . . which was perfectly reasonable in this situation.  Gríma assumed the role of teacher with an air of exaggerated patience.

            "The 'children' are full-sized hobbits, the bearded one is a dwarf, and the one with pointy ears is an elf.  I do not know what you mean by any of those odd words.  And what else would we ride or fight with?  Oliphaunts and sticks?  Would you have us build giant wooden rabbits and hide inside them, hoping our enemies would accept them as peace offerings?"  The sarcasm completely bypassed al-Sahaf, took a u-turn, stopped at a dead end, pulled out a map, tried to get directions from Saruman's persuasiveness, and was last seen heading towards Mirkwood.

            "Guns are explosive weapons.  You hold one end and you point the other end at the infidel that you want to die.  You pull the trigger, and a bullet flies at your enemy."  The explanation was accompanied by enthusiastic hand gestures.

            "Could you be any less helpful?"  Ignoring Wormtongue's tone of voice, al-Sahaf continued.

            "Tanks are vehicles you ride in, and they have big guns and can destroy anything in their path."  Wormtongue had a vision of a cart with a large bow on the front of it being pulled by a team of Orcs.

            "But how does it work?  Could you build one here so we could use it to surprise and escape from those who would imprison us?"

            "They work with machinery and the will of Allah.  Truly, I am more familiar with television.  I can stand in front of a camera and proclaim the truth that uplifts the Iraqi citizens and puts fear in the hearts of the Americans.  Anyone from around the world can see me.  Sadly, Al-Jazeera[2] and other networks are controlled by the American press and used to spread lies, but I am sure that the people of Iraq will see through them."

            _Explosive? Trigger? Bullet? Camera? Al-Jazeera?  What kind of pipe-weed was this man smoking?  Wormtongue needed some time to figure out what he had just been told.  He looked out the window and listened to Saruman's melodious voice as the wizard tried to enthrall the company on the steps._

            "It seems that you and I both use the power of speech in our professions, but we are no match for Saruman.  I follow him for his power is great, and yet I hate him and wish to be free.  Is it the same with your leader?"  Muhammed listened spellbound to Saruman's voice.  He was glad Saruman was did not have Ari Fleischer's[3] job.  Maybe he wasn't sent here to help these people, but to bring back Saruman and give him a position in the Iraqi Information Ministry.  Al-Sahaf dismissed the thought.  Iraq was winning, so there was no need for Saruman on Earth.

            "No, my leader, President Saddam Hussein, is a man of great honor and integrity, and is very much alive.  But the American leader, Bush, is an insane little dwarf and a pathetic criminal.  He and his Defense Minister deserve to be beaten with shoes by freedom-loving people everywhere.  The American people are not stupid, they are very clever. I can't understand how such clever people came to elect such a stupid president.  In truth, I speak better English than that villain Bush."

            "Looks and speech can be deceiving.  King Théoden, who was considered feebleminded and frail mere weeks ago stands before us strong and proud today."  Wormtongue declined mentioning his part in that.  Trying to stave off the bitterness he felt, Wormtongue questioned al-Sahaf.  "How would the American people have control over the choice of King?"

            "We have elected presidents, not kings.  Our glorious leader received 100 percent of the vote, and yet that war-criminal claims in his international television speeches that he wants to free our people.  But we will prevail against that lying gang of bastards!"  Wormtongue looked quiet and thoughtful despite al-Sahaf's fevered victory speech.

            "This television you speak of is perhaps similar to a palantír, a sphere of great power that may allow one to see to the far reaches of Middle-Earth if he is strong enough to control it."  Wormtongue left the room and returned a short while later carrying a dark orb.

            "Let me see it," demanded al-Sahaf, "and I will use it to tell the truth to the people throughout the land."  He walked over to touch the globe, but Wormtongue snatched it away.

            "It does not work in that manner.  I brought it here only for you to observe."  There came a loud crack from outside as Gandalf broke Saruman's staff, but neither of the dueling men noticed.

            "I am trained for television.  This is my reason for being here!"  He lunged and managed to grab the palantír, but he could not wrest it from Wormtongue's grip.

            "Let go, you overly-optimistic madman!"

            "By God, it is mine!"

            "You cannot control it!"  Just then, al-Sahaf's hands slipped and Gríma yanked on the palantír, only to have it fly out of his grip and out the window, where it narrowly avoided creating a Gandalf pancake.

            "This is all your fault!" spat Wormtongue angrily while he pointed at Muhammed.  "When Saruman comes back, act like nothing happened."

            The aforementioned wizard was in a foul mood as he ascended the stairs.  He was still trapped, Sauron was going to be angry with him, he was no longer Saruman the White (and thus had no more use for the 50 tubs of bleach he just purchased), and his staff was broken.  His mood did not improve as he entered a room to find Wormtongue whistling nonchalantly and al-Sahaf grinning like a hobbit at a buffet.

            "Let us rejoice, for you have driven off the enemy.  Also, the palantír is not lost.  Never."  Saruman's heart sank like Númenor, and he let out an ear-piercing shriek.

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*Quoted and paraphrased directly from Tolkien, TTT, The Voice of Saruman chapter.

[1] Ilúvatar, or Eru, is the creator of Middle-Earth.

[2] An Arabic satellite news channel.  See www.msnbc.com/ news/ 643471.asp (take out the spaces).

[3] The White House Press Secretary

A/N: They will eventually wind up in the Shire.  I plan on writing maybe three or four more chapters, and I would appreciate your input on how the story should end.

Thanks, reviewers!

French Pony – I'm glad to hear that.  Hmm, al-Sahaf as a missionary.  I'll consider that. There's not much of Muhammed's thought process in this one, but I will get to that, probably toward the end of the story.  I want to look up articles on the psychology of pathological liars so that I have more material to work with.

Jen Littlebottom – I'm such a fan of your stories.  I'm honored that you find mine funny.  The bullets and shoes thing is an actual M.S.S. quote.

Ibalissi – No one expects the taunting!  Their chief weapon is surprise.  Thanks for not blaming me.

Beatrice – Thanks.  I sure will.

Giantgreenbird – definitely one of my favorite Monty Python lines

Shadow – I can't write a convincing Iraqi accent, although perhaps that would have been a better line than "outrageous audacity".  I know, I love the "elderberriez" line, but I was trying to use actual Baghdad Bob insults.  It's not scary, I pretty much wrote this from memory, and then just watched the movie to double-check.  My brother thinks I have a serious problem :)  I'm glad you liked the line, and this fic. I'll join you in your protest.


	6. Of Talkative Ents and Insane Goblins

Disclaimer: Not mine.  See chapter 1.

"Weary of Orthanc?  Very weary at last; but not so weary of his tower as he was weary of my voice.  Hoom!  I gave him some long tales, or at least what might be thought long in your speech."

            -Treebeard to Gandalf, RotK, Many Partings

            "I'm bored," announced Wormtongue.  He had been trying to scratch out "Gríma wuz here" on the wall for the past hour, only to discover that the walls of Orthanc were impenetrable.

            "I am bored as well, for, although we are winning, and in fact have won already except for a few small details, the waiting is tiring."

            Saruman was bored as well, but he considered it beneath his dignity to admit it, especially to his underling and the comic-relief Iraqi.  It had been five months since his conversation with Gandalf, and he was still a prisoner.  The Ents had turned his city, his wonderful city, dedicated to industry and power over nature, into a garden.  An accursed garden, complete with a garden gnome.  Well, it wasn't so much of a garden gnome as a Goblin that the Ents had captured, dressed in a cute green outfit with a pointy red hat, and tied to a rock.  The little garden goblin was quite insane by now, and kept muttering nonsense that sounded like "ecky ecky ecky ecky pikang zoop boing goodem zu owly zhiv ni" to anyone who walked by.

            From the former gate of Isengard they had arranged shrubberies, with one set of shrubberies slightly higher than the other set, so there was a two-level effect, with a little path running down the middle.  The Ents, who had no experience in gardening, were outdoing themselves in an effort to lure back the Entwives.  In addition to shaping hedges like oliphaunts and planting bushes that spelled out "Ents rule, evileyed-blackhanded-bow-legged-flint-hearted-clawfingered-foulbellied-bloodthirsty-orcs drool!", they had arranged pink flowers in the shape of eagles all over the former city.  Saruman hoped the Entwives liked tacky.

            They were not short on water, because the Ents had created a reflecting pool surrounding his tower.  The food supply was adequate, but al-Sahaf wouldn't let them eat any of the salted ham, claiming that it was a food of the infidels, and that bacon was the breakfast of infidels.  Saruman sighed.  He was desperate enough to listen to Tom Bombadil's poetry for a ticket out of this tower and a pork chop right about now.

            "Hoom!  Come out to the window, Saruman.  I have news for you."

            _Oh dear Eru, thought Saruman, __It's Treebeard.  What does that smug, condescending, slow as an Orc learning algebra, horrible excuse for an overgrown Sunflower with a nonexistent sense of style want to tell me this time?  Nevertheless, he wanted the news, so he walked to the window._

            "Ah, there you are, my former friend.  Always so hasty.  I think it would be wise of you to learn that patience is a virtue, as the old saying goes.  Why, we Ents are never too hasty.  Hoom, no.  It would be good for you to hear the minutes of our last Entmoot so that you can learn by example how not to be hasty.  Hrm, hm," Treebeard cleared his throat, or xylem, or whatever Ents had.  "The last Entmoot was called in your language 'The Meeting to Decide Upon the Best Way to Keep Weeds Out of the Gardens, Whether by Leaf Mulch as Suggested by Quickbeam or by Bark Mulch as Suggested by Stronglimb, or Whether by Some Other Method that May be Suggested During the Course of the Entmoot, Including but Not Limited to Training the Garden Goblin to Pick Weeds.'  You see, even in naming our meetings we are not hasty.  The Ents attending this Entmoot, by their common, Elven, and Entish names were . . ."

            _Kill me now, thought Saruman, as he started to chew his lip in what might be considered a desperate act of self-cannibalism.  He wanted to hear the news from outside, and due to the fact that certain people had lost his palantír, Treebeard was the only way to get this information.  He knew from prior experience that if he fell asleep during Treebeard's rambling, the long-winded sadist would start over from the beginning.  Behind him, al-Sahaf was singing the Iraqi national anthem.  Wormtongue had managed to find some paint, and was in the process of writing "For a good time, call Gandalf" on the wall.  The goblin was trying unsuccessfully to beat himself unconscious._

            ". . . and then the Elf said, 'That's not my ear!' And at the end of that joke, we ended the Entmoot and decided to think about the arguments and meet again later for a final decision.  By root and twig, can you believe that?  Quickbeam telling a joke during the Entmoot?  I tell you, that's the problem with young Ents these days.  Hoom, back in my day, we would Shepard our trees to the end of the forest and back, walking uphill both ways in the snow before we would tell a joke at an Entmoot.  And we did.  You think you are nice and protected in your tower, Saruman, hm, but when I was young I was lucky to find an overhanging rock to shelter me from a storm, and I was grateful for it . . ."

            Three hours later, Saruman could feel his brain trying to escape by crawling out his ears.  Wormtongue and Muhammed had completed an impressive mural showing Saddam Hussein and Sauron joining hands in victory before a throng of adoring spectators.  The garden goblin was repeating "Ni, ni, ni" softly to himself.  Treebeard finally got to the news.

            ". . . and as for the latest happenings, the funeral of King Théoden was very touching. Well, that is all the news for today."

            _That's it?  Three hours of mind-numbing agony for one sentence of news?  Saruman wailed aloud in frustration._

            "Hoom, I did not know you were so fond of him," quipped Treebeard.  The Ent knew perfectly well that he was boring the wizard.  Gandalf had even suggested some of the stories to tell.  _That will teach him not to mess with my trees._

            "That's it, you evil pile of kindling," seethed Saruman, "You are going down!"

            "What did I tell you about being hasty? You are under siege and your leader is dead.  You cannot harm me."  Al-Sahaf sprang to Saruman's defense.

            "All you tell is lies, lies, and more lies!  You are worse than the American press.  Now even the Ent command is under siege. Our forces are hitting it from the north, east, south and west. You imprison us here, and we imprison you there. But at the end we are the people who are laying siege to you. And it is not you who are besieging us.  I would like to clarify a simple fact here: How can you lay siege to a whole city? Who is really under siege now? Isengard cannot be besieged."

            "Then how do you explain the lifting of the darkness over the land, or the fact that no one has come to rescue you? Hoom."

            "That is not a reasonable question.  I will only answer reasonable questions."

            "Hoom, my hasty little friend, I think you must see these things to believe them."  He looked at Saruman.  The anger had drained from the wizard and he seemed ready to weep.  Due to the lack of sunlight, the three tower occupants were paler than albino vampires, and Treebeard was moved with pity.  "I think you are unable to do further harm, so I am going to release you."

            "You see, my friends?  I told you we would triumph," smiled the Iraqi.  Dumbfounded and elated, the two natives grabbed supplies and followed al-Sahaf downstairs.  Saruman made Gríma give Treebeard the keys on the way out, and the Ent lifted them over the reflecting pool and onto the path.

            "Ni!" pleaded the garden goblin.  Muhammed stopped.

            "We should free this oppressed citiz-," Saruman and Wormtongue grabbed the Iraqi before he could either saddle them with another insane traveling companion or convince Treebeard to rescind his offer.  A very forlorn "ni" was heard as the trio left Isengard.

A/N: Technetium was typing at a computer when suddenly the door burst open and three men in fancy red uniforms walked in.  "You are under arrest for possession of too much Monty Python trivia with intent to distribute.  You are also charged with being unable to write a chapter of more than one thousand words without including Monty Python reference."  As they grabbed and dragged away the author, cries of "Come and see the violence inherent in the system!  Help, help, I'm bein' repressed!" echoed down the hallway.

I couldn't decide on just one ending, so I am going to write a few alternate endings.  In one of these endings, al-Sahaf ends up at the Official Fanfiction University of Middle-Earth (OFUM) as portrayed by Miss Cam in her stories found here www.fanfiction.net/ read.php?storyid=644826 and here www.fanfiction.net/ read.php?storyid=950294 (you'll have to take out the spaces in front of the read part, because ff.net erases hyperlinks).  If anyone who is reading this wants to be one of the fangirls or guys in that alternate ending (being aware that you might not be portrayed in the best possible light), send me an email with your name (whatever name you want), species (if you want to be a Hobbit or Elf or something like that, you can), description, and anything else you think is relevant.  You probably won't have more than one short mention.  I will try to write the chapter so that you don't have to be familiar with OFUM, but it would help.  I have Miss Cam's permission (Thank you Miss Cam.  You're awesome!) to do this.

Thanks, reviewers!

Smushed Pea – Sorry about your head ;)  Thanks for the information. I did some more checking in the book and found out more about dates and what happened to them between Isengard and the Shire, so I have more material to work with.

Me – Thanks!  Don't worry about ideas. Just reading reviews encourages me.

Huinesoron – Three cheers for al-Sahaf.

Lady Berenice – Thank you.  I know, although personally I think he would be more suited to something in the hearts suite :) 

French Pony – Thank you! *beams* The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is my favorite book ever.

Giantgreenbird – Thanks.  I'll try to write a little bit about explaining Islam, but that might be hard to do because I really don't want to make fun of that religion (I'm a Christian, myself).


	7. Road Games, Religion, and Coconuts

Disclaimer: Middle-Earth belongs to Tolkien, Monty Python belongs to either the Pythons or a bunch of llamas, M.S.S. and Martha Stewart belong to themselves, Inspector Gadget belongs to someone else, and the use of humorous footnotes in a fic belongs to Terry Pratchett.

A/N: This is the complete chapter.  Special thanks go to French Pony and giantgreenbird for suggestions.

            "As they came out again into open country at sundown they overtook an old man leaning on a staff, and he was clothed in rags of grey or dirty white, and at his heels went another beggar, slouching and whining."

            -RotK, Many Partings

            "Master, where are we going?" asked Wormtongue as they left Isengard.

            "To leave Aragorn's wretched realm.  Where do you think, fool?"

            "Of course, we must leave enemy territory and join our reinforcements, where we will encourage them with the information we've gained."

            The first day they were traveling, the weather was warm and sunny, their supplies were adequate, and Saruman and Wormtongue were content to let the Iraqi prattle on about their great victory.  By the second day, their feet hurt and the three walked in silence.  By the thirteenth day, their clothes were dirty and worn, their blisters had blisters, the food was starting to run low, and they were ready to gladly eat any minstrels they might find.

            "Are we there, yet?" whined Wormtongue.

            "No," replied one very peeved Istar.

            "I'm hungry."

            "I don't care."

            "I'm thirsty."

            "I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone who gives a damn."

            "I need to go to the bathroom."

            "Use a bush."

            "We're lost, aren't we?"

            "No, of course we are not lost.  I know exactly where we are going."  Saruman glared at his follower.   They were so lost.  Saruman had no idea where he was.  If you think it is difficult to get a Man to ask for directions, try getting a wizard to ask for them.  "Go annoy the Iraqi."  Wormtongue shrugged and turned to al-Sahaf.

            "We're doomed."  Al-Sahaf turned and grabbed Wormtongue's shoulders so that they faced each other.

            "No, I guarantee we are not doomed, for how can we be doomed when Allah is on our side?"  Gríma loosed himself from the Iraqi's grip.

            "Saruman!" yelled Wormtongue, "He touched me!"

            "Shut up, both of you, or so help me I will beat you to death with my staff and throw your broken bodies off the next cliff I come to!"  Saruman asked himself for the hundredth time why he had to be stuck with these two.  Why not a couple of Orcs?  At least Orcs knew how to shut up and follow directions.  The wizard only had a few minutes to ponder before he was interrupted again.

            "That doesn't make very much sense.  Why would you kill us and then drag the bodies all the way to a cliff?" questioned Wormtongue.  "Would that not be a waste of effort?"

            Saruman did not dignify that with a response.  Couldn't they understand it was a figure of speech?  It was bad enough yesterday when Wormtongue had decided to exhaust his whole repertoire of "An Elf, a Dwarf, and a Hobbit walk into a tavern" jokes, but this whining was excruciatingly painful.  It was even worse than the time in Orthanc when al-Sahaf had tried to explain his religion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            "So who is this 'Allah' person you keep referring to?" questioned Gríma.  Wormtongue had finished counting the stones in their room, and Saruman seemed to be petting an imaginary white, fluffy cat [1] and muttering something along the lines of 'Next time, Gandalf.'"

            "Allah is the one God, the great creator of everything."

            Wormtongue thought quickly.  This "Allah" sounded like Eru, who had created the Valar, the Maiar who served the Valar, and all of Middle-Earth.  Morgoth, the most powerful Vala, along with his servant Sauron, challenged Eru for his power.  The other Valar had been too stupid to join with Morgoth and had instead joined forces against him and banished him.  The way the situation stood now, Wormtongue served Saruman, who served the Maia Sauron, who was going to take over Middle-Earth, in opposition to Eru.  The Iraqi nutcase probably would not be pleased to hear this, and Wormtongue had no desire to have his sleep disturbed by shouts of, "Convert, you infidel!"

            "Ah, the name we have for Allah is Eru." Wormtongue knew that the best lie was one which was almost the truth [2].

            That made sense to Muhammed.  After all, Allah, the God of Abraham, was given different names by the Christians and Jews.

            "So our enemies do not believe in the name of Eru?"

            "Not exactly," hedged Wormtongue.  "They believe, but they have a twisted version of the truth."

            "Ah, so they do not believe in the prophet Muhammed."

            "Who, you?  I didn't know you were a prophet."

            "No, not me!" exclaimed al-Sahaf.  "I am merely named after him.  Truly, you have no idea what you are talking about."

            "Then enlighten me." Gríma's voice was not sarcastic in the same way that dwarves were not bearded.

            "A prophet is a man chosen by God to be his messenger.  An angel spoke to Muhammed and revealed to him messages from God, which were later written down in the Koran."

            "Angel?"

            "An immortal spirit created by Allah."  Wormtongue hoped he wasn't talking about Elves.

            "That sounds like the Maiar, of which Sauron is one.  We follow Sauron, who has remained true to the vision of Allah, while our enemies follow angels who have turned against Eru.  They twist his vision to their own nefarious purposes."  Gríma mentally congratulated himself.

            "They follow the Great Satan!"

            "Sure, anything you say."

            "And the angel Sauron deigns to talk to men?"

            "I talk to him all the time," interrupted Saruman, who had just started paying attention to the conversation.

            "So you are a prophet!  Truly Allah has blessed me by sending me to aid you instead of continuing to denounce the Americans, whose forces are so inept that they are already defeated."

            "Um. . . yes?"

[1]He might have been petting an imaginary purple rabid mongoose for all Wormtongue knew, but he decided to give the wizard the benefit of the doubt.

[2]The worst lie, on the other hand, was "But ossifer, I'm totally sober!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Wormtongue then tried to organize a game of HORSE.  He explained that every time you saw a horse, you had to call out the name of the breed.  The first person to call out the correct name received all the letters in the name, and whoever had enough letters to spell "horse" first, won.  The game was popular enough in Rohan[3], where it was even easier to play, as it was considered fashionable to decorate their saddles with signs such as "My other horse is Shadowfax," "I brake for Elves," and "Smile – The Valar love you," and players used the letters in the signs instead of breed names.  The game worked less well (i.e. not at all) in the wild, as Saruman refused to play, al-Sahaf knew nothing about horses, and the only animals they saw were a few swallows.

            As evening approached, the trio heard voices coming from the woods a little way beyond them.

            "Where'd you get the coconut, Pip?"

            "I found it."

            "Found it?  Here?  The coconut's tropical?

            "What do you mean?"

            "Well, this is a temperate zone."

            "The swallow may fly south with the sun, or the house martin or the plover may seek warmer climes in winter, yet these are not strangers to our land." This was said by a third voice.

            "Mr. Frodo, are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?  My gaffer would have something to say about that."

            A group of riders consisting of Gandalf, the Hobbits, Galadriel, Celeborn, Elrond, and other Elves from Rivendell and Lothlórien overtook the tired travelers.  Wormtongue quickly called out the names of the horses, but he was still missing an "o."  His shoulders slumped in defeat.

            "You two are not even trying to play," he whined.

            Gandalf rode over to Saruman, greeted the disgraced wizard, and pointed out that they were heading in the wrong direction.

            "I knew that," sneered Saruman, "I was just testing you."

            "It is you who are going in the wrong direction, by God . . ."  Wormtongue ignored the Iraqi and looked at the company.  He hungrily eyed a Rivendell Elf that had pulled out a small lute, and then he caught sight of a golden-haired Elf atop a magnificent stallion of a breed with which he was not familiar.  He approached the Elf, who looked at him with pity, but did not move away.

            "What kind of horse is that?" he asked politely.  He thought Elves to be wretched creatures, and he certainly did not feel like being polite to this smug pretty-boy, but he wanted to win the game.  His honor was at stake!  Well, actually, he did not really have any honor, but his pride was at stake! . . Come to think about it, he was lacking in that department as well . . . But he wanted to win, damn it!

            "You refer to Asfaloth?" asked a surprised Glorfindel.  "He is . . ." The Elf did not complete his thought, as Gríma had started running toward the Iraqi.

            " . . . We will crush you like infiOUCH!" Wormtongue had elbowed the former information minister in the stomach in order to announce his victory.

            "In your face, Muhammed!  I won!"

            "Gríma, we must not show weakness in front of the enemy.  We will stand united in Allah's name as they are destroyed from within by dissention and incompetence!  The enemy is already condemned."  Gríma threw his hands up in exasperation and then sat down on the ground, muttering to himself.  Saruman, in his conversation with Galadriel and Gandalf, was not listening to his bickering followers, but perhaps they influenced him unconsciously.

            "You have doomed yourselves, and you know it," he announced.

            For her part, Galadriel knew that the arrogance and despair of Saruman and Wormtongue would prevent them from accepting help from the Elves.  However, as she looked at the Iraqi, a momentary expression of surprise, noticed only by Celeborn, flitted briefly across her face [4].  In this stranger, she sensed not hatred but a strong sense of righteousness and hope.

            *_Muhammed* Al-Sahaf started and looked around for the source of the voice that seemed to come from inside his head.  His eyes came to rest on the graceful Elven Lady whom he had noticed before but had not paid much attention.  She seemed to glow with an ethereal light, and her face was more beautiful than a video released by Saddam Hussein announcing that America had surrendered. *_Your companions are not what they seem.  We are not your enemy._*_

            "Lies!" shouted al-Sahaf.  "You think you can spread your infidel propaganda with voices in our heads, but it will not work, by God!"  He started to say more, but as he looked at the angelic vision in front of him, his enthusiasm was strangely diminished.  Wormtongue looked concerned.  An eccentric Iraqi was one thing, but a psychotic Iraqi hearing imaginary voices in his head was something else.

            Saruman finished cackling at Gandalf and the Elves, whacked Gríma with his staff for being lazy enough to sit down, and dragged the two men over to the Hobbits, where he tried to wheedle pipeweed out of Frodo and Merry.  Wormtongue and al-Sahaf stood in front of the remaining Hobbits.  Pippin clutched his coconut protectively while Sam tried (and failed) to imitate a chameleon by keeping one eye on Frodo and the other on the humans in front of him.  Wormtongue continued to wail about how nobody cared about poor old Gríma.  Sam looked suspiciously at the Iraqi.

            "Where'd you come from?  Gandalf told us about these other two, but he said nothing about you."

            "I am Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf, sent by Allah from the land of Iraq to aid the prophet Saruman by proclaiming the victory of the righteous followers of God over infidels such as you," he said with a not unfriendly smile.

            "And I thought this was a big nut!" said Pippin, eying his coconut.

            "You have no idea," interjected Wormtongue.  The Iraqi stared at Gríma with a hurt expression.

            "So what are you going to do with the coconut, Pippin?" asked Sam.

            "'Dunno.  Probably eat it or maybe try to prove that it's a mammal."

            "What?  Pippin, I know you've had more schooling than me, but I know plants, and I can tell you that is definitely no mammal."

            "But it has fur and produces milk," argued Pippin with a cheeky grin to show that he was joking.

            "Fool of a Took," laughed Sam.

            Wormtongue and al-Sahaf were continuing their staring contest when Saruman kicked them both and bid them to follow him as he absconded with Merry's stolen pipeweed pouch.  Pippin took offense on Merry's behalf and lobbed the coconut at Saruman.  He was rewarded with a loud "thock," swearing from Saruman, another thud and a yell as Saruman took his anger out on Wormtongue, a glare from Gandalf, and congratulations from the other Hobbits.

            As they reached the cover of the woods away from the riders, Saruman turned to the others an announced his intention to visit the Shire with an evil grin.

            "There are no infidel Hobbits in the Shire!"  Saruman gave the Iraqi a look that suggested he was stupider than a brain-damaged mountain troll on drugs.

            "There are _supposed to be Hobbits in the Shire.  It's a good thing."  Somewhere in an alternate reality, an uneasy feeling came over Martha Stewart as her trademarked phrase was used.  She hand knitted doilies until it passed._

            "Sorry, force of habit," shrugged al-Sahaf.  "Yes, I see now what we are doing.  They chase us here and we chase them there.  We will besiege the infidel command.  They are like a snake and we are going to cut it in pieces!"

--------------------------------------

[3]The citizens in Rohan were crazy about their horses.  In fact, the most popular street theater show chronicled the adventures of Lâcan, the brave horse (played by two men in a pantomime horse outfit).  Here is a sample of typical dialogue:

Lâcan: Neigh.

Man: What's that, Lâcan?  Theodred fell into a well?

Lâcan: Neigh.

Man: And there are Orcs after him?

Lâcan: Neigh.

Man: But these Orcs can be crushed by pushing a conveniently placed boulder off a cliff and then we can tie a rope to the boulder and pull Theodred out?

Lâcan: Neigh.

Man: Lâcan! There's no need to be so rude, even if this is the 42nd time Master Theodred as found himself in this same situation.

[4]When you live with someone for a couple thousand years, you tend to notice these things.  Elven husbands are adept at distinguishing the "fine" that means "fine" from the "fine" that means "I'm not fine because you have done something to inadvertently offend me, and I am just pretending to be fine in order to let you stew in your guilt and if you don't know what you did wrong I am certainly not telling you."  That ability was envied by some mortal men even more than immortality.

------------------------------

A/N: Wow, my longest chapter ever.  Saruman's line about being doomed came straight from the book.  All the information about Islam came from www.usc.edu/ dept/ MSA/ introduction/ understandingislam.html (take out the spaces).  I tried to be funny without being mean, but if I didn't pull it off, feel free to flame me.  The information about Morgoth, the Valar, the Maiar, and Sauron came from _The Silmarillion_ by Tolkien.  The real M.S.S. has shown up in Baghdad!  I still plan to have a couple of alternate endings, so that news will definitely affect one of them.  The OFUM ending still has spots open if you want to guest star (details in chapter 6).  As always, thanks to my wonderful reviewers!

Giantgreenbird – Sorry about that.  A witch turned me into a disembodied hand. (pause) I got better!  Thanks for your suggestion.  I know you didn't mean it in a negative way.  I think it adds to the story by explaining al-Sahaf's motivations a little bit better.  I spent most of my vacation in the city and I had a blast.  I saw the Statue of Liberty, the Intrepid, the Museum of the City of New York, the American Museum of Natural History, the Bronx Zoo, and a lot of relatives.

Alida-Fruit – Thank you for your reviews and pointing out your favorite lines.  It always helps to know which lines work and which don't.  I will gladly take a short review over no review any day.  I'm glad you like my writing style, though so far it's sort of an imitation of Pratchett, Adams, and Monty Python.

French Pony – I really appreciate all of your reviews.  Thank you for the license plate bingo suggestion.  I don't think I would have been able to work in Glorfindel or Asfaloth otherwise.  I love those corny jokes too. [A man walks into a bar with a pair of jumper cables around his neck.  The bartender says, "You can't come in here with those!"  "Oh, come on," pleads the man, "have a heart."  "Well, okay," says the bartender, "But don't start anything!"]

Me – Fear not, the Python references will continue.  The epilogue will be chock-full of them. 

Hana – Don't worry about missing chapters.  I know how it is.  I'm glad you like the garden goblin.  He'll show up again.  They managed to get me, but I escaped.  Hehe – remind me not to upset you on any roadtrips.

PrincessEilonwy – What?  Your parents won't let you see it?  That's cruel and unusual!  (Actually, I didn't see it until my first year in college, either.)  Thanks for your suggestions, and for volunteering.  There will be one more chapter after this, and then I'll post all of the alternate endings at once, so you should turn up within two updates.  I had a great time in New York.

Wilwarin – Thanks.  I'm honored to be on your favorites list.

Bubonic Woodchuck – Very cool username.  Thanks.

Velaineil – Thanks, I had a great time. Hehe - Is that a good "oh, my" or a bad "oh, my."


	8. Of Hobbits, Hedgehogs, and the Rohirric ...

Disclaimer:  Not mine.

___________________________________

"I've heard of the Shire," remarked Wormtongue as they were traveling.  "You know, 'Why not try a holiday in the Shire this year.  See the lovely lakes, the wonderful messenger system, and the many interesting animals, including the majestic Hobbit.'  You know," he continued, his speech gaining momentum as he realized that his traveling companions were too tired to do him physical harm, "A Hobbit once bit my sister."  Saruman and al-Sahaf looked at him sceptically.  "No, really!  She was carving-"

"You're thinking of a hedgehog, if you can even call what goes on in that insignificant head of yours thinking," interrupted Saruman.

"You might be right," mused Wormtongue, annoyed by the slight but choosing to ignore it.  "I seem to remember her having an irrational fear of an imaginary giant hedgehog she called 'Spiny Norman.' I used to terrorize her by singing a song about something you could never do to a hedgehog.  And then there's my brother, who decided to dedicate his life to the study of swallows.[1]"

"African or European?" questioned al-Sahaf [2].

"I don't know," huffed Grima, "but I do know it's amazing that I turned out as well as I did."

"Yes, truly Allah has granted you a miracle," exclaimed al-Sahaf.  Wormtongue searched for sarcasm in the Iraqi's comment but failed to find any.  Al-Sahaf and sarcasm went together like orcs and air fresheners – desperately needed but never found together.  Wormtongue caught himself thinking that his sister, who was almost as terrified of sarcasm as she was of hedgehogs, would get along well with the buffoon of an Iraqi.  As he was thinking, they came upon the lush fields of the land surrounding the Shire.  The path into the Shire was barred by a rather menacing –looking gate manned by two young Hobbits.

"Stop!" demanded the first Hobbit.  "What are your names?"  Saruman introduced himself as Sharkey, which drew odd looks from Wormtongue and al-Sahaf, but they wisely chose to keep quiet after Saruman directed a death glare at them.  The two underlings gave their proper names to the gatekeeper.  As the first Hobbit was struggling to spell "Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf" in the visitor's log, the second Hobbit eagerly spoke up.

"What is your quest?"

"We're just visiting," answered Saruman.

"What is your favorite color?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?" asked Saruman.  "I didn't expect the Rohirric Inquisition."  Everyone looked around expectantly after that statement, but nothing happened [3].

The Hobbit explained, "We want visitors to remember the Shire as the happiest place on Middle-Earth, so we like to give them souvenier postcards in their favorite colors when they leave."

"Multi-colored, just put anything on it," replied Saruman, growing impatient.

"Red, black, and green, the noble colors that stand on the Iraqi flag, representing God, truth, and justice for all the world to see."

"Black," grumped Wormtongue.

"Is black really a color?" asked the first Hobbit.

"Well, I don't know," considered the second.  "Scientifically speaking, of course, black is the absense of color."

"Are you sure?" questioned the first.

"Yes, because white is a blend of all the colors," reasoned the second.

"But what about in art then?" retorted the first Hobbit.  "If you mix all of your paints together you get black, or a kind of disgusting brown."

"Oh yeah, I agree with that," admitted the second Hobbit, "but then again . . ."

Saruman, Wormtongue, and al-Sahaf ignored the bickering Hobbits and walked past the gates.  They soon overtook a small person carrying an umbrella.

            "Young girl," called out Saruman, hoping he could get information.

            "Hobbit," replied the figure.

            "Hobbit, sorry.  Can you tell me--"

            "I'm 102" interrupted the Hobbit.

            "I --What?"

            "I'm 102.  I'm not young."

            "Well I can't just call you Hobbit."

            "You could call me Lobelia."

            "I didn't know you were called Lobelia."

            "Well you didn't bother to find out, did you?" Saruman got the vague notion that he had just lost some kind of contest, although he was not aware he had been in any competition.  Al-Sahaf observed the Shire with interest.  The quaint little hobbit holes with their bright doors and well-tended gardens certainly didn't _look_ like any type of command center, but he knew those cowardly infidels could be sneaky.  He would not put it past those wild dogs to hide in civilian areas and wear disguises.  He remembered how the American propaganda machine had dressed up their own people and pretended they were Iraqi prisoners of war in order to demoralize his country's army.  Well, he had certainly dispelled _that_ lie.

            "So, Lobelia," said Saruman, "Who is in charge here?"

            "That would be my son, Lotho," she said proudly, but with an undercurrent of unease.  "Ever since old Will Whitfoot the Mayor was arrested, Lotho has been taking care of things as the Chief Shirriff."  She eyed the trio critically.  "I expect you'll want to report to him, or else his big man, Bill Ferny, who lives there."  She pointed to a newly-constructed brick house that looked like it had been thrown together in two hours by someone who normally walked around with a sign saying 'Will Build Houses For Food.'  Lobellia continued, "I can't say I hold with all of you ruffians, even if you do work for my Lotho."

            "Well you'd better get used to it, you old bat," Wormtongue started to gloat before an umbrella impacted his shin with a surprising amount of force.  "Ouch!  I'll do you for that, you miserable hag!"  He started to lunge at Lobelia, who was defiantly standing her ground, when he was stopped by Saruman's kick to his uninjured leg.  He fell to the ground, cursing, as Lobelia deliberately walked away.

            "We need to focus on taking control of the whole Shire, Worm.  You can't let one old Hobbit distract you, even if she does have more courage than you," explained Saruman.

            "Why do you always kick me, and hardly ever kick the Iraqi?" he whined, pointing to al-Sahaf, who was quietly watching the proceedings and going over how he could best persuade the common Hobbits to turn from their misguided ways and embrace the true leader.  Al-Sahaf's musings were interrupted by a swift kick to the ankle.

            "Better now?" questioned Saruman.

            "Yes, a bit" shrugged Wormtongue.

____________________________________

[1]  Oddly enough, Grima's brother found himself apprenticed to another wizard, Radagast the Brown.  Together, they determined that the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow is about 24 miles per hour.  Of course, adding coconuts would considerably change the weight ratios, and throw off all their calculations.

[2]  Radagast and Grima's brother actually spent most of their time studying the Eriador swallow, as the Easterling swallow was migratory and therefore harder to observe.

[3]  Four hours later, three men dressed in red rode up to the gate, and the following conversation was overheard:  "_Nobody_ expects the Rohirric Inquisition!  Our chief weapon is surprise. . surprise and fear, our _two_ chief weapons are fear, surprise—What do you mean we're too late?  Biggles, I told you to get faster horses!  Mark my words, it will be the comfy chair for you!"

___________________________________

A/N: The number quoted as the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow comes from the website www.style.org/ unladenswallow/ (take out spaces).  The hedgehog song belongs to Terry Pratchett.  A picture of the Iraqi flag can be found at www.flags.net/ IRAQ.htm (no spaces).  Spiny Norman is from the Pirahna Brothers sketch in the Monty Python TV show, and everything else is either from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_, or the _Lord of the Rings_.  I'm sorry I haven't updated sooner.  I've been so busy with school work, but I wrote this over Thanksgiving break.  I have exams coming up, so the next update probably won't be until January.

Thanks Reviewers!

Hanya the Bloody Angel – I'm sorry I seem to have missed replying to you earlier, I didn't mean to.  Thanks for the reviews.  Yep, traveling with those two can be very annoying.

Queen Isis – I hope you're completely recovered by now!

Oremis – No, that wasn't the end.  I definitely will finish this, it just might take some time.  I hope to have it completed by February, but I won't promise.  I'm a slow writer, but I do still plan to write "Pretty fly for an Uruk-hai."

Tarock – Thanks.  I'm really glad to have your opinion.

Kitsune-Chan 8 – I appreciate it.  I'll make sure to put in something about Uday and Qusay just for you.  Don't worry, you haven't seen the last of the garden "gnome."

Giantgreenbird – Do you have a fanfiction.net account that you're just not logging into?  I'd love to read your stories if you've written anything.

They-call-him-wormtongue-for-a-reason – It's based on a line from Monty Python, where Tim the Enchanter warns the knights about the rabbit, telling them that "Death awaits you all . . . with nasty, big, pointy teeth!"  I'm trying to not bend them out of character too much, while still staying funny, but feel free to tell me if I go too far.

OjosVerdes – Thanks, and sorry about that.  *hands out e-asprin*

Wilwarin – [font = Sir Launcelot] Ah . . . oh, yes, about not updating . . terribly sorry . . . Well, you see the thing is . . . I really didn't mean to . . .[/font]

ElfLover – Yep, I remember you.  Thanks. "I fart in your general direction."


	9. Rules and Regulations

Disclaimer: LotR, Office Space, Monty Python, the Borg, Fight Club, the ASPCA, Yankee Doodle - Not mine.

* * *

They walked over to the house Lobelia had indicated and Bill Ferny came out to meet them. Ferny greeted Saruman enthusiastically and tried to give him a high-five, which he awkwardly attempted to disguise as batting away flies when Saruman made no move to reciprocate. 

"Good day, Ferny. I trust everything has been coming along well?"

"Yes, Mr. Sharkey. I started out working with that hobbit, Lotho, to ship Longbottom Leaf to your place at Isengard almost a year ago. He's been buying up land here in the Shire, gradually taking over, and I've been helping by sending some of my -" Saruman raised an eyebrow. "-or rather, your-" continued the Hobbit, "Men to make sure he wasn't challenged. Now I pretty much run things here, even if Lotho is theoretically in charge." He practically beamed with pride over his last statement.

"Well, I'm in charge now," announced Saruman, deflating Ferny's ego more quickly than a French taunter with embarrassing baby pictures. "Has there been any resistance from the Hobbits?"

"Not much," replied Ferny, in full underling-reporting-to-a-superior-officer mode. "At first the Mayor objected, but we arrested him. For a time, a certain Fatty Bolger was leading a band of rebels up by the hills of Scary(1), but he, too, was captured. Any Hobbits that didn't agree with my policies are now imprisoned in the Lockholes at Michel Delving. There's still some resistance coming from Tookborough, but all of Tookland has been shut down, so that shouldn't last too much longer. By now they should know that resistance is futile (2). I now have about 300 men and half-orcs under my control here, and I've enlisted some of the greedier or more gullible Hobbits to act as Shirriffs to enforce the Rules."

"The Rules?" questioned Saruman, sensing the capital R. Ferny grinned and grabbed a thin book from a nearby desk, shuffling some papers as he did so to cover up his copy of "Orcs Gone Wild" with his MESPCA(3) Newsletter. He handed the book to Saruman, who began to read:

The Rules:

1. No admittance to the Shire between sundown and sunrise unless bribed by obscene amounts of money.

2. I, Lotho, am your Chief, you shall have no other Chief besides me.

3. All pipeweed is to be collected.

4. Each Hobbit shall not exceed his daily allotment of firewood.

5. All food and goods shall be collected and "fairly" distributed.

6. There is no rule #6.

7. No jaywalking.

The list continued for pages. Saruman looked up while Wormtongue and al-Sahaf tried to read over his shoulders. Due to the fact that they were shorter than he was, they failed, but achieved greater success when they moved to his sides.

"I take it Lotho is a bit of an egomaniac," stated the wizard.

"That's one way of putting it," said Ferny. "You should see his house. It's entirely decorated with portraits of himself. His sense of self-satisfaction could be used to power an entire kingdom."

"And the "fair" distribution of goods means that you have almost everything stockpiled."

"Right again, boss." Saruman continued to peruse the list. Most of the Rules were pretty standard – No opposing the Shirriffs, no chaining yourself to trees in protest of the recent logging increase, no withholding valuable items from the Shirriffs – but a few were confusing.

"Do not pass go, do not collect 200?"

"What about number 101: 'Don't talk about Shirriffs' Club'?" asked Wormtongue. Saruman glared at his underling for speaking out of turn, but was secretly relieved at being able to conceal his own ignorance.

"I don't know," shrugged Ferny, "They won't talk about it. It's also rule 102."

"No shirt, no shoes, no problem?" read Gríma.

"Well, it was written mostly by Hobbits," explained Ferny. "I had a terrible time when the Shirriffs tried to unionize and demand mandatory breaks for Elevensies." Just then, a knock sounded on the door. "I'll get that, and you three can add whatever you want to the Rules." Ferny opened the door to find a Hobbit with one feather in his hat, marking him as a lower-ranking Shirriff.

"Here's my TPS report," announced the Hobbit, handing Ferny a stack of papers." The Man smiled. It was his idea that every Shirriff complete a Terror, Pillaging, and Shirriffing report as a way to keep track of their actions and keep demand for his new paper mill high. "It doesn't have the cover sheet because I only remembered about it as you opened the door," admitted the Hobbit sheepishly.

"Did you get the memo?" asked Ferny. Memos, carried to each of his man and the Shirriffs via the Quick Post Service Runners, were another of his sinister inventions to waste paper.

"Yes, I got the memo, I just forgot," sighed the Hobbit.

"I'll send you another memo, and if you could just use a cover sheet in the future, that'd be great." The Hobbit nodded, knowing it was pointless to argue. Luckily, he had schooled himself so that the expression on his face was serious instead of insane with rage. Ferny pondered the Hobbit for a moment, and then declared, "You could use more flair, so I'm going to promote you." He handed the Hobbit another feather, which the halfling promptly stuck in his cap, but oddly enough, he didn't call it macaroni. (4)

* * *

(1) Not to be confused with the Hills of Terrifying, or the Hills of That Panicked Feeling You Get When You Are Dreaming That You Have A Huge Project Due Tomorrow And You Haven't Started Yet. 

(2) Which would make conductance 1/futile. (Sorry, bad science joke. Ignore the author.)

(3) Middle-Earth Society for the Promotion of Cruelty to Animals

(4) He did, however, call it Linguini. Yes, he was a sad, strange little Hobbit.

* * *

Meanwhile, Saruman, Wormtongue, and al-Sahaf were having fun with the Rules. Saruman grabbed the quill and ink and wrote "No admittance of any Wizards or Kings, especially Gandalf or Aragorn." He, of course, was exempt from the wizard rule, and he was using an alias, anyway. 

"Or Riders of Rohan, especially Eomer!" exclaimed Wormtongue.

"Write it yourself, Worm. I am no secretary." With that statement, Saruman stood up and shoved the quill into Gríma's hand. What Saruman didn't mention was that he actually was the secretary of the White Council, and he was still bitter about it. He was the leader of the Council, and by rights he could have delegated it to someone else, but the blue wizards couldn't be bothered to do anything, Radagast would spend hours talking about the bird to which the quill had belonged, and Gandalf kept blowing smoke rings and muttering about how taking notes was not a proper affair of Wizards. In the end, Saruman had been forced to take the minutes himself. Gríma looked downcast, but took the quill and wrote his suggestion down anyway.

"Also, write down 'No Elves,'" demanded Saruman.

At that point, al-Sahaf finally spoke up. So far, he had just been observing everything. He wasn't sure about the "fair" distribution of goods. A man knew something suspicious was going on when the quotation marks were actually written down. That sounded a lot like communism, and he remembered the bitter struggle against the godless communist infidels of the USSR. But then again, certain precautions needed to be taken in an occupied country. The goal was of course to free these oppressed Hobbits from the tyranny of Gandalf and his minions such as the former mayor. Sometimes drastic measures had to be taken in order to secure an area for military operations while at the same time minimizing the number of civilian casualties. He had high hopes for being able to speak to the resistance and convince them to turn from the deceptive lies of their leaders. "Add 'No believing American lies and no trusting any authority except Saru-er, Sharkey.'" The last correction was due to a well-placed kick.

To be continued . . .

* * *

A/N: _The author stands nervously in front of a group of reviewers waving large flaming torches and shouting "Burn! Burn!"_ I'm so sorry it's been forever since I've updated. I really will try not to leave you all hanging that long again. I could use the excuse that as the war has dragged on, people are dying, and it's really not funny by a long shot. Of course, the premise never was that war is funny, just that MSS is funny. But even that has a dark side, because propaganda that urges people to fight when they have no chance just means that more people die needlessly. That certainly had something to do with my lack of updates, but I'm also lazy. However, I do want to finish what I started. If I stop again, feel free to send me all the threatening emails you want. Thank you so much to everyone who has read or reviewed. I haven't quite finished the Rules yet, so if you have any suggestions or pet peeves that you want outlawed, leave them in a review. By the way, if you do review, please sign in, as I'd like to read something you've written. 

Tindomiel – Thanks for the comment about great taste. I'm afraid I ruined any chance at that claim with Ferny's choice of reading material. Sorry about that.

BoromirDefender – I'm glad you like the Python. There are a lot of great opportunities for stories using minor characters. Thanks for putting me on your favorites list.

Queen Isis – Have you had a chance to watch the movie yet? The scripts are great, but you really have to watch to hear the galloping hoofbeats across the foggy morn resolve themselves into the figure of a man followed by a coconut-clapping lackey. The exams actually went so well that I graduated and got a job. Sorry I've been gone so long.

Wilwarin – Let's hope you never find yourself in a situation where you're surrounded by Orcs and need air fresheners. Trust me, it's not pretty.

Bubonic Woodchuck – Everybody loves Baghdad Bob!

French Pony – Thanks for the constructive criticism. I really appreciate it, and I'll try to take it into account. Although if I was rusty then, my hiatus probably hasn't helped any.

Kitsune-Chan 8 – I hadn't been to the website before, but I checked it out, and it was pretty funny. Thanks for your suggestion – I'll definitely have Uday & Qusay show up somewhere.

Eirtae – Don't worry, I've been bad in the past about leaving reviews. I'm trying to get better, though.

PrincessEilonwy – I'm glad you liked Lobelia, and thanks for the compliment. I'll do my best to update quickly from now on.

HathorCol - is glomped Thanks. I'll take this shrubbery, and put it by my original one, only slightly higher, so you get sort of the two-level effect with a little path running through the middle.

Proserpina – Thanks, and I hope your pet boy is ok. I haven't figured out quite how yet, but before the story is finished I will work in something about acrobatic German businessmen.

Tolkanonms – Wow, you went through and reviewed every chapter. I really appreciate all the little comments about what you liked. Yes, the mysterious universal translator problem is something that I like to see addressed.

Catmint – Thanks for all the complements and comments on individual chapters. No, you most certainly were not the only one having black-knight flashbacks.

GreenCat3 – Welcome aboard.

Terreis – Thanks for checking me out and for the compliments. I really enjoyed your work that I've read so far. I'm pretty sure Muhammed isn't a Goa'uld (at least in this story), but I wouldn't rule out Saruman. I will, however, try to work in a few Stargate references in upcoming chapters. As for where this comes from? Well, late one night I was reading a LotR fanfic when my friend IMs me with the IlovetheIraqiInformationMinister website, and things just sort of took off from there.


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